


She Painted Fire Across the Skyline

by Sparrow (hersilentlanguage)



Category: Descendants (Disney Movies), The Isle of the Lost Series - Melissa de la Cruz
Genre: Carlos is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Isle of the Lost (Disney), Jay and Evie appear more often as the story progresses, M/M, Mal is Bad at Feelings, Marlos-centric plot but Rotten OT4 context, Minor Angst, Multi, fluff with a plot, mini-slow burn, romantic undertones but not sexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24872542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hersilentlanguage/pseuds/Sparrow
Summary: Mal had expected the question in Carlos’ eyes; even the one on his lips didn’t so much surprise her— “Me?” His voice was small. He looked genuinely uncertain, like he thought maybe, somehow, she hadn’t meant to address the only other person in the room with her; or else, thatbecausehe was the only one around, she hadn’t thought twice, hadn’t thought about—what?The scars? His freckles?“Carlos,” she said again, soft but affirming thatyes,she’d wanted him for this since the moment it’d struck her as a concept—not too long past the moment she had (literally) bumped into him on the street and, seeing the storm in her, he’d asked her what happened...
Relationships: Carlos & Cruella de Vil (mentioned), Evie/Jay/Mal/Carlos de Vil, Mal & Maleficent (mentioned), Mal/Carlos de Vil
Comments: 30
Kudos: 85





	1. Between Dark and Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this fic planned for _months_ , and I'm very excited to finally share it. This was going to be a straight-to-the-point drabble, as I'd originally conceived it, but I decided to flesh it out so that the _core scene,_ the reason I'm writing this whole thing, will be that much more satisfying. Also, please note: this chap will feature the most angst of the entire story, but I promise it's relatively minor and there's definitely some fluff padded around it. I hope you'll enjoy! <3
> 
> _The title of this fic is taken from a trilogy of songs by the band Agalloch. If you like progressive metal, I highly recommend the band even though the actual lyrics have literally nothing to do with the fic._
> 
> **TW for this chapter:** Minor narration of an abusive parental relationship (Mal & Maleficent), a few instances of swearing, one minor blood mention, implications of an anxiety disorder (Carlos), and heavy implications of non-specific body image issues.

Mal had expected the question in Carlos’ eyes; even the one on his lips didn’t so much surprise her— “Me?” His voice was small. He looked genuinely uncertain, like he thought maybe, somehow, she hadn’t meant to address the only other person in the room with her; or else, that _because_ he was the only one around, she hadn’t thought twice, hadn’t thought about—what? _The scars? His freckles?_

“Carlos,” she said again, soft but affirming that _yes,_ she’d wanted him for this since the moment it’d struck her as a concept—not too long past the moment she had (literally) bumped into him on the street and, seeing the storm in her, he’d asked her what happened—

“My mother happened,” she’d spat, kicking at the ground so hard that she’d cracked the clay between the cobblestones. “She’s on a fucking rampage…” Mal had gone on to explain that she’d gotten into a fight with her mother; nothing unusual in that, so she’d let her guard down, gone to take a bath, and come out to find that Maleficent had ransacked her room, targeting her art supplies and feeding them into the fire.

Mal had screamed at her to stop, but it’d been too late to save most anything. She’d only managed to get back up to her room and bolt the door, keeping it closed long enough to grab the art portfolios she kept carefully hidden, plus clothes enough to spend a few nights away. She’d dressed hurriedly, stuffed everything in a rucksack, and escaped out the balcony, using the dead ivy that clung to the castle walls as a makeshift ladder to the streets below—and all to the tune of muffled shrieking.

It’d been twilight, so Carlos had been out and about. He’d long done his chores for the day, and he wasn’t expecting his mother home for dinner, which left him free to collect on a few deals, and scavenge the alleys for anything useful or interesting.

Mal, herself, had been en route to their hideout, having decided she’d lay low there until her mother’s infamous temper had cooled. She knew not to go there directly, lest those boorish pig-men her mother called _minions_ tried to tail her, so she took her time in wandering the streets, pausing to appreciate her many tags across the city.

(Her favourite was a recent rendition of the double dragon tattoo on her back.)

She’d stopped to admire her own work at the mouth of an alley, feeling a thrill to see how permanent it looked there on the stone. Her fingers twitched with the want—no, the _need_ —to paint, the more she stared at the tag; but she’d covered the walls of the hideout already, and hadn’t thought to replenish her store of paper and canvas…

 _“Bitch,”_ Mal had thought as her mother’s face flashed in her mind. She’d made a fist, narrowing her eyes at the double dragon tag, wanting nothing more in that moment than to repaint it in anger, with the blood of her knuckles—

She’d whirled away from the wall, and started forward without looking where she was going, which resulted in her knocking heads with Carlos. He hadn’t said much past his initial question to her, since she’d launched into a rant about everything with her mother. (He’d just listened and nodded and frowned when appropriate.)

Mal had been actively ranting when it’d struck her—an idea sparked by a chance look at the reflection behind him, where she’d noticed the patch on his back. She’d painted the crossbones insignia herself, then passed the fabric to Evie to be sewn onto the coat; that was to say, Mal knew the design intimately—every stroke—but, in that moment, she hadn’t seen it for what it was…

She’d stared _beyond_ it, found a vision there. Inspiration.

Carlos had noticed her staring at _something_ behind him, but before he could ask about it, she’d seized on his coat sleeve and given him a tug. “Come with me?”

“Where?” he’d asked, having no clue to what she might be thinking.

“The dragon’s den!” (He’d given her a look.) “Ugh, _fine_ —the ‘hideout.’” _If you insist on making our lair sound so boring and obvious,_ she’d grumbled silently to herself.

Carlos had tilted his head at her, still resisting her tug. “What for?” he’d asked.

“I need a favour,” was all Mal had wanted to say, but again, Carlos had resisted her.

(He’d developed that habit over the years since he’d joined her gang—no more the scared little boy who’d do anything she asked if she stared hard enough at him. He was full of questions, and as stubborn as she was, always quick to dig his heels in.)

Huffing like a restless bull, Mal had glanced around to confirm the eyes that were on them. She’d gripped Carlos’ coat a little tighter, and leaned in nose-to-nose, with an expression like she meant to threaten him, for the sake of their audience, then said simply, through grit teeth: “I can’t tell you _what for,_ okay? Not _here.”_

Carlos had studied her face for several seconds before relenting. “Fine…” He’d sighed, pulling his arm free of her grasp as he took a half-step back. “Let’s go.”

Now, in the hideout, having just heard the favour Mal was asking him, Carlos sat heavily on the old, faded red couch, folding into himself with his arms around his belly, gripping tight at fistfuls of his predominantly red-and-black leather coat.

Mal stood unmoving at the centre of the room, watching the way Carlos’ chest rose and fell, slow and purposeful—watching the way his lips subtly parted and shut with the intention of words that he couldn’t yet verbalize.

It was strange, she thought, to see him so vulnerable. He wasn’t _acting it_ in the way she was used to, the way he did on the streets when he presumed to be on his own and some ego with fists was looking hungry for a challenge.

No, he… wasn’t _afraid,_ either. That’s not what she saw.

She saw—well, she didn’t actually know what to call it; only that she’d often caught a glimpse of it like a ghost beneath Evie’s skin—a shadow that passed across her eyes, her smile—then, seemed to vanish with a hair toss.

The thing with Carlos was that he wasn’t pulling up a mask.

And, honestly, Mal had to admit—she hadn’t expected that.

She’d expected, by now, they’d be knee-deep in snark and rolling eyes and, _“Are you seriously that desperate?”_ She’d expected him to feign disinterest, make excuses, hold out until he’d determined exactly how much this “little favour” was worth to her.

“—Jay’s coming tonight?” Carlos was asking.

Mal snapped out of her daze, shaking her head to clear her thoughts.

“Oh,” said Carlos, who’d raised his eyes in time to catch her apparent answer. His shoulders slumped a bit before he tried for a shrug. “I just thought—maybe—”

“He’s coming,” Mal interrupted. “I mean, probably.” She cleared her throat, and jerked her head toward the single bedroom in their hideout, the only portion of the space that was walled-off from the rest. “He’s still getting used to the bed thing…”

“Yeah, um, what about Evie?” asked Carlos, sounding distracted. His eyes had trailed to the door, but he glanced back at Mal when he heard her sigh heavily.

“I want _you_ for this. That’s why I asked you. Not Evie, not Jay— _you,_ De Vil.”

Carlos’ cheeks took on a rosy tinge as she spoke, but still, he pressed her: “Why?”

Mal crossed her arms. _“Because,”_ she declared, lifting her chin in a stubborn pose.

There was a long silence, and then Carlos dropped his gaze, mumbling, “Wow, you really thought this through,” at which Mal faltered, at a loss for what to say to that, because, yeah, okay… maybe she _hadn’t_ —maybe it was a little impulsive, but—

“Well, what do you want me to say?” she asked, her tone verging on exasperated.

“Nothing,” Carlos said immediately, trailing off into another silence between them.

It wasn’t a _comfortable_ silence, though, and since Mal hadn’t gotten a clear answer out of him one way or the other, it was only so long before she muttered, “Look, if you don’t want to do it, then… whatever, it’s not like I’m gonna _force_ you, alright?”

“I know.” Mal blinked at that, chasing the ghost of a smile across Carlos’ lips. He caught her eye, then added: “If you want to grab some paper, I’ll go with you…”

It was an olive branch, Mal knew. Carlos hated to say _no,_ and whether or not he’d actually said it, he was trying to appease her. It was instinctual, really—even if he knew she wasn’t mad at him. (Disappointed, sure, but she tried not to let it show.)

Slowly, she shook her head, and replied, “Nah, it’s fine, I’ll ask Jay tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Carlos, visibly relaxing. He uncrossed his arms from around his belly, letting them slip back to his sides as he settled more comfortably into the couch. He watched her sidelong as she came to join him, taking a seat that left room between them. He was quiet a while, waiting for her to speak again, but when she didn’t—

“Hey, you know… you really should ask Jay.” He shrugged when Mal glanced at him; with a low chuckle, he continued: “Any excuse to take his shirt off, right?”

Mal snorted, rolling her eyes. “Like he _needs_ an excuse.”

“Guess not,” said Carlos, and they shared a laugh before the silence crept in again.

Finally, Mal edged forward on the couch, about to stand and shed her coat, maybe grab a snack and figure out what to do until Jay showed up—well, _if_ he showed up.

But that’s when she realized it.

“What?” asked Carlos, raising an eyebrow when he noticed Mal was staring at him.

“You never take your shirt off,” she said bluntly—not accusing, just a fact.

“Yeah, well…” Carlos shifted. “Neither do _y—”_ He stopped short, realizing that what he’d been about to retort wasn’t exactly true. “Neither does _Evie!_ So what? _”_

Mal faltered in her response, not sure what to answer, and even less sure why she cared. He’d said _no_ —in his own way. That was enough. ( _Time to stop talking, Mal.)_

“I need to pee,” she said abruptly, getting to her feet. She didn’t so much as glance back at him, having stared enough as it were. She hadn’t seen any blood on his shirt—nothing to suggest he was hiding anything but his body, and so—yeah, whatever.

Jay would get her some paper tomorrow. Maybe actual canvas, if she was lucky.


	2. I Don't Want To Go Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AGAIN. Look at me, actually getting out new chapters in under 48 hours again. It's a quarantine miracle. :')
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who commented on the first chap here and on Tumblr! Super appreciated. <3
> 
> _There's no new trigger warnings for this chapter, so just make sure you check the notes at the start if you're worried!_

Carlos hadn’t always felt so at ease here, in the hideout. He hadn’t presumed it _belonged_ to him anymore than Hell Hall did. _Why should he?_ Not like it mattered to him. It was enough if he had a key in hand—some proof that he belonged _in_ the place, with Mal and Jay and Evie.

He’d told Mal it was a “nice place” when she’d first showed it to him and, of course, she’d just shrugged and said it was nothing special, but— _at least it was theirs, right? The four of them._

Right away, that meant something to Evie. He’d seen it in her eyes, the way they shone above her wrinkled nose as she’d plucked a pair boxers off the couch, held them out to Jay between pinched nails, muttering— _‘Steal us a laundry basket, would you?’_

Jay had laughed as he swiped the boxers from her, hiding them behind his back as he’d given a sarcastic bow. _‘Of course, princess—anything to make Her Majesty more comfortable in her chambers.’_

 _‘Princesses are addressed as Her Royal Highness,’ _Evie had retorted with a playful smirk.

 _‘Oh, spare me the gallows!’_ Jay had exclaimed, pulling the boxers over his head like a prisoner’s hood as he clutched dramatically at his neck, stumbling towards her. She’d squealed and run behind the couch as Mal and Carlos had exchanged a look, then rolled their eyes in perfect sync.

When Mal had gone off to the bedroom for a change of clothes, Carlos had taken the opportunity to look around, take the place in. He’d seen Mal in most everything at that point—maybe a bit of Jay here and there, but not much. It’d just been the two of them, Mal and Jay, hanging out here for years; when it wasn’t—which had been the case more often—Mal had been alone, and well… it showed.

It showed in the walls, the decor, the stains—the wealth of purple and green fingerprints, smeared across furniture and floorboards. Mal was lonely, and she’d filled the space up with reflections of herself to compensate. But slowly, steadily, the place had changed—the loneliness had ebbed out…

It didn’t happen overnight, no.

It’d happened as slowly as the four of them began to realize that maybe, just maybe, they were _more_ than a gang when they were alone together, out and away from their parents’ deep shadows.

Carlos could still remember vividly the winter’s day he’d stumbled into the hideout to be greeted by his own face on the wall, larger than life. He’d stopped dead in the doorway, earning the ire of Mal when the wind and snow rushed in around him. _‘Dude, close the fucking door!’_ she’d snapped.

Jay had chuckled from where he was sitting on the couch, chin propped in one hand, smirking at Carlos’ dazed reaction to the new mural. _‘Good job, M, you broke him. Guess I’d better hit the reset…’_

Without warning, Jay had leapt up and tackled Carlos, trapping him in a headlock as he rubbed his fist relentlessly into Carlos’ snow-soaked curls. They’d wrestled until they were breathless, chests heaving with silent laughter. Carlos had looked up from where he’d buried his face in Jay’s chest just in time to notice Mal had been watching him sidelong, her expression carefully guarded.

She’d looked away before he could smile at her, so he’d pushed off Jay, gotten to his feet, and wandered over to stand awkwardly behind her as she cleaned her paintbrushes. _‘What do you want?’_ she’d asked, at last, sounding exasperated. She’d turned to face him with a slight frown. _‘I’m kinda busy here, so—’_

Carlos honestly hadn’t known what he was thinking, but he’d hugged her right then and there, and for the first time. She hadn’t hugged him back, of course. He’d let go of her while her arms were still stiff and jutting out like branches—eyes as wide and aglow as a raccoon in headlights.

They hadn’t talked about it, and Jay had known to pretend like he was napping on the floor, but—it’d happened, hadn’t it? Carlos wondered sometimes what Mal must’ve been thinking—or what she thought now, remembering it.

(It was silly to wonder, of course. She’d never tell him.)

Carlos breathed a sigh, tipping his head back to rest against the crest of the couch. His eyes swept over the barren ceiling, with its many familiar cracks and water stains. He liked it the least of anything about the hideout for the fact that it reminded him of home (if you could call it that).

Not like the walls here, with their vibrant murals sprawling top-to-bottom. _Those_ were beautiful.

Mal could make anything beautiful with a brush or a pen—just give her a couple hours for it.

He chewed at his lip as he considered this.

_Oh, Evil, what was he thinking?_

It’d been a while since Mal had gone to “pee,” which she clearly _hadn’t_ , since it was dead quiet in the bedroom. Not like he had to listen hard to know that, since there wasn’t a real door between here and there—only a thick curtain Evie had made to “spruce the place up.” (Whatever _that_ meant. Evie claimed to have heard it on a Auradonian news segment about interior design.)

All Carlos knew was that the way _this_ interior was designed, there was no place for an actual bathroom. They had a bucket for that, which they kept stashed in the bedroom when no one was asleep there. It was noisiest with a metal bucket, but they’d recently upgraded to plastic, so…

Either way, it was obvious Mal’s only business to attend to was her thoughts.

And that was fine, since Carlos had plenty to think about on his own.

It was several minutes longer before Mal’s footsteps could be heard echoing off the bedroom walls, followed shortly by the faint screech of hooks across a metal rod as Mal pushed the curtain aside to leave the room.

There came a sudden silence, then, so Carlos spared a glance at her, then back up to the ceiling—

“You should paint it,” he said simply, gesturing for her to follow his gaze.

Mal just blinked at him, not sure why she felt surprised to see him there. She hadn’t heard the door or anything, she just thought… well, hadn’t he realized that she’d given them both a way out?

She was careful to swallow the sigh behind her lips as she asked, with a glance up, “The ceiling?”

“Yeah,” said Carlos, his voice betraying an undertone of genuine excitement about whatever idea he must’ve grown attached to while she was brooding over an empty bucket. “Evie and I could make more of that glowing paint stuff and you could make, like, a bunch of stars or something. It’d look really cool at night, and yeah… um—” He drew his eyes from the ceiling to look at her, a little sheepish for the way his enthusiasm had bled out. “I don’t know. Just an idea, I guess.”

Mal cracked a smile. “Could be cool,” she agreed. “I’ll think about it.”

With that, she turned toward the corner of the hideout that functioned as a kitchenette. “Hey, you hungry?” she asked over her shoulder as she began to rummage through one of their dry food bins—mostly pre-packaged stuff, like expired granola bars, clumped-up raisins, and stale chips.

“I’m fine,” Carlos replied automatically.

Mal didn’t answer, but she rolled her eyes while her back was still toward him, and grabbed a half-full bag of trail mix for them both to share. She paused when she turned around to see that Carlos was sitting forward on the couch, wriggling his arms out of his coat—a sign that he was planning to stay longer, maybe even for the night. That was… _unexpected,_ yeah.

But it was fine.

Just a little curious.

Mal moved to perch on the armrest of the couch, bringing one leg up to rest on the cushions, leaving the other to idly swing and dangle. “So…” she began, holding a small fistful of trail mix out to Carlos, who accepted it without comment. “You’re staying?”

Carlos paused mid-chew, then slowly nodded. _“Yaw,”_ he replied through a mouthful. He met her eyes and swallowed before adding, “…That okay?”

There was a beat of silence.

Finally, Mal shrugged. “Do what you want,” she said coolly, leaning sideways to rest her elbow on the crest of the couch. She stuffed a bit more of the trail mix into her mouth before dangling the bag out for Carlos to take. _“Wah mo?”_ she asked as she ground down on a rock-hard raisin.

Carlos, no longer looking at her, just shook his head in answer.

She studied him, with his fingers threaded together in his lap, and raised an eyebrow. _“Waz won—”_ she started to say, only to stop and wince when the raisin’s pointy end stabbed her square in the gums. _“Ow,_ fuck.” She spit the bit of fruit out and tossed it clear across the room for the rats to take. “I said what’s wrong, pup?” she asked as she rubbed at her cheek.

Carlos bit back a smile at the nickname, feeling a thrill of warmth in his belly for the affection it spoke to. “I changed my mind,” he said softly, after a moment, before he could lose his nerve.

“Okay,” Mal replied, looking confused. “…About what?”

“I’ll do it,” said Carlos.

“Do what?”

Carlos twisted to face her, a near-whine of frustration escaping his throat. He gestured to indicate himself, but Mal just stared at him like he’d signed her up for a game of spontaneous charades, so he ducked his head and mumbled, “Look, can you just… turn around or something?”

Mal glanced back, like she expected someone to be lurking behind her, then shrugged.

“Alright, weirdo,” she agreed with a smirk, sliding off the couch arm and moving to where she could lean against it with her back to Carlos. “Don’t even think about trying to scare me,” she warned, holding a finger up and pointing blindly at him over her shoulder. “I’ll punch you.”

There was no response except for what might have been a soft snort of amusement, muffled by the rustling of fabric and the squeak of rusty couch springs. Mal quickly grew bored and, with a sigh to emphasize her impatience, she began muttering, “Dude, whatever you’re doing, hur—”

“I’m done,” said Carlos, just barely loud enough to have interrupted. “You can turn around.”

Mal hesitated, unable to articulate for herself what it was about Carlos’ tone that made her so uneasy.

She turned slowly, from the waist, angling her neck, her head, and _lastly,_ her eyes toward him…

“Cee,” she breathed out, staring at the bare expanse of scarred and freckled skin he’d left exposed to her. He was sitting with his back to her, slightly slumped so that the ridges of his spine were more apparent. She couldn’t see his face, and he didn’t look at her even when she moved to sit down next to him, but he flinched and sat a little straighter when she touched her fingertips to the base of his right shoulder blade.

_Was this because of her? Was he afraid to tell her no, even after the fact…_

“I said I wouldn’t force you,” she murmured, letting her hand fall limp across her thigh.

“You’re not.” Carlos’ voice was still quiet, but adamant. He turned slowly, clutching his shirt to his chest so that it covered him fully from his collarbone to his waist. “I changed my mind, that’s all.”

Mal frowned into her lap. “…Why?” she asked, curling her fingers so that her nails dug into her leg.

There was a beat of silence, and then—

 _“Because,”_ said Carlos, echoing her stubborn tone from earlier that evening. He adjusted his grip on his shirt so as to place one hand over top of hers, gently flattening her palm against her thigh.

When she looked up, there was a threat of a smile at the corner of her lips. “Are you _mocking_ me?”

Carlos tilted his head, the picture of doe-eyed innocence. _“Never,”_ he replied.

(But, of course, Mal knew him better than that.)

“Jerk,” she mumbled, knocking their knees together. He just smiled at her, and she returned it.

Their gazes remained on each other for only a second before they both looked away, flustered.

“Just… tell me what to do,” Carlos said quietly. “Where do you want me?”

“I—” Mal hesitated before replying, “Are you _sure_ , pup _?”_

Carlos’ immediate answer was something between a sigh and a chuckle. _“Mal…”_

 _“‘Los,”_ she mocked, aiming a playful punch at his shoulder, which he dodged with an eye-roll.

“Okay, fine, if you’re _serious_ about this…” She got to her feet, and planted her hands on her hips, quirking an eyebrow in silent question as she peered down at him, offering this one last chance to back out. (He didn’t take it.) “Guess I’ll owe you one, then.”

“You’ll owe me _several_ ,” said Carlos, flashing a smirk that broke like lightning through the storm of nerves ever-present in the dark of his eyes. “Better not forget, or _else.”_

Mal scoffed. “Yeah, yeah,” she replied with a casual wave, turning on her heel to gather up what she’d need for this—a pen or two, some paints and brushes, a towel and rags, and a glass of water would do it. She had all that here in the hideout, and now she had her canvas, too.

“Wait there,” she told Carlos, shooting a glance at him over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _jkljdkjalgjkasljgksa_ I told you, this is gonna be SOFT AS HECK. With how this chapter ends, I think it's pretty clear where this is going, yeah? Yeah. ~~So, it should now be wildly apparent why I was one impulse away from titling this fic "Paint Me Like One Of Your French Girls."~~ :')))


	3. Come On (Lay Your Body Down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST. ~~It hasn't actually been that long, but my god, I've been dying to _finally_ share this chapter.~~
> 
> I'm very, very excited to give you not only the longest chapter yet (3.6K!), but also the first chapter to _really_ get into the whole reason I wanted to write this fic in the first place. You'll know what I mean by... roughly halfway through? Yeah. ;)
> 
>  **Chapter-specific content warnings (may constitute minor spoilers):** _implied anxiety attack (specifically in response to a trigger), a few implications/references to parental abuse, implications of body image issues, references to food-related abuse that _may_ affect readers sensitive to implications of eating disorders, very brief and _potential_ implication of gender dysphoria (it's left open to interpretation, which is why I say "potential"), minor blood mention, and several instances of swearing throughout._
> 
> Note: If you'd like to read this chapter, but one of the above warnings is potentially an issue for you, please don't hesitate to ask me here or on Tumblr (@hersilentlanguage) for a version of the chapter in which the problem is edited out.

Carlos had lost himself in thought again, staring up at the ceiling while he waited for Mal to return with everything. He heard her cursing softly as her footsteps started toward him— (“Fuck. C’mon, don’t spill, don’t... _fucking_ — _ugh._ Shit. Whatever.”) —and he was on his feet in that very instant, his body rigid and his eyes blown wide as he watched Mal struggle to balance everything in her arms.

He felt frozen, but he knew he had to move, _had to help her before she tripped in her heels, dropped the wine glass, made a mess of things, stained her furs with blood, and blamed him for not being quick enough to—_

“Sit!” (Mal winced at how it’d sounded.) She hadn’t meant to _command_ him, it was just that her teeth were grit together from the water glass she’d propped beneath her chin—her vain attempt to keep it steady atop the mess of everything _else_ in her arms. She’d been so focused on her balance, trying to keep more water from spilling out, that she’d nearly jumped at seeing Carlos’ move so suddenly.

Mal mumbled out an apology that she wasn’t sure he caught, but... well, she wouldn’t repeat it.

No need to draw more attention to the fact that Carlos had listened—that he’d sat right down, without question, like it was instinct to obey. He’d stayed like that, too, staring hard at the floor—breathing slow and deep, his fingers digging into his shirt, his toes curled tight enough to cramp—

(It hurt a little, but the pain was grounding.)

Carlos exhaled, and reminded himself where he was, who he was with, that he wasn’t a slave here—wasn’t anyone’s _bitch._ His mouth soured from even thinking the word. (Always Jasper’s voice that said it.) _‘What’s that little gang of yours keep you ‘round for, anyway—eh, mutt? Bet I know what!’_

But, of course, Jasper didn’t know a thing about Mal’s gang or Carlos himself—and, anyway, if you were asking him, the better question was why his mother had so long tolerated _either_ of her pathetic, bumbling minions. _Shit for brains,_ he thought with venom. It stunk out of their ears, and yet—

“Still with me, pup?”

Carlos blinked, focusing his eyes on the scuffed-up toes of his boots until he realized—those were _Mal’s_ boots. He raised his head to look at her, standing over him with her head cocked, frowning slightly. The only thing in her hands now was a dark green towel that’d been washed to shreds and stitched back up again. Behind her, he glimpsed the other supplies dumped out on the coffee table.

(Okay, it wasn’t so much a coffee table as a long wooden crate they’d painted brown, but _anyway…_ )

“I’m good,” said Carlos with a faint smile. He sat up a little straighter, hoping she’d understand. He didn’t want to talk about—well, whatever had just happened. They didn’t have a word for it, but it happened to all of them sometimes. Mostly, Carlos preferred if they didn’t make a “thing” of it.

Mal’s eyes narrowed like she might press him, but instead, she just deadpanned, “I hope not.”

He must have looked as confused as he felt, because she snorted a laugh and gently bumped his foot with the toe of her boot. “Wrong side of the bridge,” she said, her pale eyes alight with amusement.

“Wow.” Carlos stared at her flatly. “Is it just me, or are your jokes getting worse than Jay’s?”

“Just you,” Mal assured him with a smirk. “Jay was never funny.”

Having said that, she shook the ratty towel out like a tablecloth, and tossed it over Carlos’ head. She could imagine him glowering as he grumbled from beneath it, “That doesn’t even make sense…”

“Doesn’t have to,” she retorted, turning her back on him to assess her supplies on the coffee table. They weren’t organized, but at a glance, she didn’t think she’d forgotten anything, so she nodded to herself. They should probably get started—get as much time as they could before Jay showed up, got bored, and inevitably tried to distract them both. _Evil, he really was the worst for that…_

(Jay didn’t mind so much if he had to sit around and watch her paint; it was more that Mal didn’t always like him _talking_ when she got into her art, and that made him restless. He was _touchy_ when he was restless—practically a giant cat with a life-or-death _insistence_ on physical contact. Insufferable.)

Mal rolled her eyes at the thought, then glanced over her shoulder to see Carlos shaking the towel off his head with the vigour of a dog after bathtime. “Alright, scoot,” she told him, gesturing to indicate the right side of the couch. He glanced that way, then back at her. “I need the middle,” she explained.

Carlos nodded and, with his shirt still stubbornly held against his chest, he slid toward the armrest.

Mal bent to drag the coffee table forward as she took her seat at centre.

“Okay,” she said, turning to look at Carlos. He was quiet, gazing back at her, obviously expecting her to say more—give him some kind of instruction. She hesitated on that thought. “Okay,” she repeated, and though her face didn’t show it, she kicked herself for how awkward it sounded to repeat that—

_This had been a good idea, right? It wasn’t totally weird to ask someone to do this for her?_

Carlos cleared his throat, noticing that she was beginning to zone out. “Hey, Mal?”

“Uh—yeah… what?”

“Nothing,” he replied with a shrug, “you just seemed kinda… distracted for a second.”

Mal scoffed, waving him off like the very idea of that was ridiculous. “I was _thinking.”_

“Uh-huh,” said Carlos, with an impish twist to the corner of his lips. “Part of your ‘process’?”

“Exactly,” she replied, snatching up a paint brush from the coffee table. She twirled it between her fingers until the wooden end was pointing at his nose, which she gave a poke. “So, you ready?” she asked, smirking when he frowned and leaned away to avoid her attempt at poking him again.

“I don’t know, are _you?_ I’m the one waiting.” He raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

Mal just stuck her tongue out at him as she tucked the paintbrush behind her ear. She settled back into the lumpy couch, making herself comfortable; then, taking the towel that had fallen between her and Carlos, she stretched it out to its full length, letting it settle across her lap.

_Now, this was the awkward part…_

“You can lay down.” Mal gave her thighs a little pat, then busied herself with smoothing the towel out, not daring to make eye contact as she added, “If you want.” (She’d decided earlier it’d be the most comfortable for them both, but having actually asked him? A part of her hoped he’d refuse.)

When Carlos didn’t say _anything_ for a full ten seconds, Mal realized she was holding her breath.

She felt stupid for the way her heart jumped when she saw him start to shift in the corner of her eye, and her first thought was that he was leaving—but that he _couldn’t_ leave—that they had a deal, and— _oh,_ _for Lucifer’s sake, Mal, you’re embarrassing yourself._ (That was her mother’s voice creeping in.)

Mal drew blood from the inside of her cheek as she watched Carlos, who was now on his knees in the seat beside her, struggling to keep his chest covered with one arm as he slowly leaned over her thighs, using his other arm to brace himself—

“Sure I’m not too heavy?” he mumbled, clearly hesitating to lay his weight across her.

 _‘You?’_ Mal wanted to say, wanted to laugh. _‘Seriously?’_ Her gut twisted like a snake around those words, choking the urge until it lay still in her. “Just lay down,” she said quietly, hoping her voice betrayed none of the helplessness she felt as a leader when she placed her hand on his back, felt the ridges of his spine pressing up against her palm as he curved, wave-like, then settled down…

He wasn’t heavy, and not just because she could tell from the tension in his muscles that he was still trying to support some of his own weight on his elbows and knees. He wasn’t heavy because he’d grown up on his mother’s scraps, and she ate little to begin with. He’d scavenged some for himself as he’d gotten older, especially since Jay had proven to have his back like a shadow; but even so, he was adamant it’d be worst for him if he ate to where his health would betray him—enough that his mother would realize he’d been keeping food off her table, and that he might have _other_ secrets, too.

 _‘She’s crazy, not stupid,’_ Carlos liked to remind them. He was sensitive about the difference, probably because everyone expected him to turn out just like her; more than that, though, he was _right—_

They had to be careful.

Even here, where they felt hidden.

_They should be careful._

Mal stared down at her hand, not sure when she’d reached for the pen she held poised like a knife over Carlos’ back. She’d asked him to do this, to make himself this vulnerable for her on a _whim_ —

And he’d done it.

(They were both so _very_ fucked if word got out about this.)

But maybe they could just… talk about that later—figure out a way to spin it or something.

Mal took a breath, and let her grip loosen around the pen. “Dude, you gotta relax,” she chided, acting like she couldn’t feel her heart competing in the race against his, like it baffled her why she could feel his hare-foot rhythm pounding into her skin even now. “You’re gonna cramp up if you stay like that.”

“Like what?” asked Carlos, straining to get a look at her over his shoulder. “You said to lay down.”

“Yeah, and you’re doing it wrong,” Mal retorted, wiggling a finger under his armpit to prove her point. He squeaked, surprised and indignant as he melted fully into her lap. “Mm, much better.”

“Fuck off,” Carlos muttered, his voice muffled by the couch cushion he’d smushed his face into.

Mal hummed distractedly, running a hand down his back to where a knot of muscle was protruding. She poked at the spot with the tip of her pen, and Carlos grunted in response. “Hold this,” she said.

He reached back blindly with his palm up, only to be swatted away. Mal set the pen atop his head.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled, feeling both her hands come to rest on his back, her fingers splayed and gently kneading. Evie did this for them all sometimes, but Mal? It was a first…

“I need a _canvas,_ not a piece of wood,” Mal answered, her tone just _daring_ him to make fun of her.

Carlos didn’t, though. He lay as still as though he were asleep, only grunting softly when she hit a sore spot or increased the pressure beyond what he’d expected. Mal kept at it for only a couple of minutes, but it was enough that when she pressed it now, Carlos’ skin felt warm and malleable.

“Still awake?” she teased, grabbing the pen off his head, and tapping it lightly against his back.

“Mm,” said Carlos, which was good enough for Mal.

She uncapped the pen, poising the nib against his skin. “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted. “Tell me if it hurts.” She drew the tip slowly from one freckle to another, but drew her hand back when Carlos tensed against the shiver that wracked his body, making his muscles ripple visibly.

He stayed quiet about it, and Mal could feel him relaxing again from the way his stomach sank over her knees, so she didn’t hesitate for long—she resumed the line, leaving a thick, meandering trail of black ink through several freckles across his lower back. “Well?” she prompted as her hand stilled.

“Doesn’t hurt,” said Carlos, shifting to curl his arms beneath his head as he spoke. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, making his next words come out muffled: “Feels kinda weird, but like…”

“Good weird?”

“Yeah.”

Mal bit back a smile at that, not sure _why_ she was smiling anymore than why she wanted to hide it.

That wasn’t something to dwell on, though.

 _It was time to get serious_.

She looked down at the single line she’d drawn and, in her mind’s eye, saw what it could be—what it _was_ becoming as she began to sketch out from there. She set her jaw, and focused her gaze on the pen tip, letting her mind empty of everything but the vibrant scene she was intent on capturing. _  
_

Carlos’ toes curled tight from the press of the nib, and the tickle of Mal’s hand brushing softly down his spine. He tried, for a while, to visualize her sketch—to assemble the _feeling_ of the lines like a puzzle. He couldn’t, though; each time, the impression of an image would occur to him only to shift, near-immediately, into something different and more abstract—

Things he couldn’t even put a name to without inventing the words.

He gave up, and hooked his mind onto the feeling alone—the sensation of ink like running water, his skin dipping down like the banks of a creek bed—Mal’s hand like an autumn leaf in the lazy current, drifting _around, around, around_ the raised and calloused scars like jutting river rocks—

Idly, in the whisper-soft dark of his thoughts, he could remember how often he wished to feel as little as those scars did—as little pain or pleasure. He’d wished for a heart as unaffected as his mother’s.

But now? He might never have that wish again, if this feeling stayed.

“Almost done,” said Mal, her voice breaking through the haze of not-quite-dreaming.

“M’what?” he croaked out, not bothering with the effort of lifting his head or opening his eyes.

Mal slipped her free hand into his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made his toes curl all over again. “Said I’m almost done,” she repeated, and Carlos tried to nod, but it came more like a subtle twitch. He felt her hesitate—maybe just thinking; part of her “process” and all—then, she sketched a few small strokes in quick succession—paused a moment—and circled the pen in a last slow, confident stroke around the centre of his lower back. “There,” she said.

Carlos shifted slightly, mumbling something that sounded _vaguely_ like a question in English.

“Not yet,” Mal answered, having interpreted his meaning well enough. “Take a nap. I don’t care.”

Carlos hummed a little in acknowledgement. He felt the warmth of her stomach pressing against him as she reached across to the coffee table, rummaging around through her supplies for whatever she’d need next. Shortly, she was leaning back, and he felt her laying something across his bottom.

“Don’t wanna paint your butt,” she muttered, giving his belt loop a teasing tug as she adjusted the rag to cover most of his shorts. Mal chewed her lip in thought, then added, “I’m, uh, gonna tuck it in, so… don’t freak out, okay?” She pulled the paintbrush from behind her ear, using the wooden end of it to stuff the rag in a little ways along his waistband. “That should do it.”

Carlos hummed again, unbothered.

“Wait, one more thing…” Mal tugged gingerly at Carlos’ shirt, laid out beneath him. He stiffened, cracking one eye open, and very sluggishly twisting his head around to look at her as best he could in his current position. She looked down to meet his gaze, then shrugged. “You want paint on it?”

Carlos sighed. “Not really…”

“Here, then—just—” Mal gestured over his head to indicate the armrest. “Put it there or something.”

Nodding, Carlos raised himself onto his elbows just enough that he could free the rumpled white t-shirt. He pinched the fabric between his fingers, pulled it out, and tossed it so sloppily over the armrest that Mal had to reach and grab it before it slid off, onto the dusty floor.

“Thanks, M,” he mumbled tiredly, settling back down across her lap, feeling heavy with the weight of the near-sleep he’d been stirred from, and heavier still from the weight of Mal’s hand returning to rest on his head, petting gently through his curls.

“Yeah, well… I know how your mom gets,” she replied, voice serious; and then— “Real son of a bitch, huh?” She gave his curls a rough tousle, and Carlos could feel her smirking over him almost as certainly as she could imagine how hard he’d just rolled his eyes at her joke.

“Sure am,” he said drily.

Mal laughed, to his surprise and probably her own. Carlos almost (not quite) smirked, not that she’d have seen it, anyway, but he didn’t say anything—and neither did she. The quiet between them was only broken by the slosh of paint in the little bottles Mal had picked up to shake, each in turn—

“Brace yourself,” said Mal over the audible pop of a cap opening. “Paint’s still kinda cold.”

She flipped one of the bottles over and gave it another shake until the paint dropped. There wasn’t much left in that one, so a hard squeeze resulted in a wet, wheezing sound and a slimy drip before a good amount plopped out onto Carlos’ back.

He grunted in distaste, trying to twist his head to look back at Mal, but he only caught a glimpse of her purple hair and the edge of an impish smile before she clicked her tongue, and playfully pushed his head into the cushions—

“Don’t move, or you’ll mess it up,” she said, with no edge to her scolding.

Carlos huffed, rearing his head up like a stubborn horse as Mal began to smear the paint across his back with her fingers instead of a brush. “Feels like a bird shit on me,” he complained. “Super gross.”

Mal made a choking noise, clearly caught off guard by the comment.

“Sh—shut up,” she retorted, her voice rough with barely suppressed laughter. “It’s not that bad.”

 _“You’d_ know,” he said sarcastically, curling one of his legs up to wave his foot at her in a taunting, lazy sway. (She elbowed him in the calf. Not hard, but he still feigned complaint.) _“Ow,_ Mal _…”_

She rolled her eyes, unseen. “Don’t be such a baby.”

 _“You’re_ a baby,” he muttered lamely, settling his head back down in his arms as Mal resumed the art of smearing cold, wet _yuck_ across his back. (Okay, so maybe it wasn’t _actually_ that bad with the friction of her fingers working through it, rubbing warmth into his skin.) He soon enough let out a soft, contented sigh; then, just to see if she was listening, he murmured, “I’m gonna be taller than you one day, y’know…”

Mal was quiet for several seconds, but then he felt her hand still, and the couch springs squeaked as she leaned down, letting her hair fall to where it tickled his neck. “Maybe,” she purred into his ear, “with the right pair of heels…” She drew back, then—just like that. Like she’d said nothing at all.

Carlos, meanwhile, felt his cheeks burning hotter than the dragon fire in Mal’s blood.

He was suddenly very, very glad for the fact that his face was out of sight. He didn’t know what to answer—didn’t know if he could trust his voice, even if he had the words in him. It was just…

He’d thought, after all these years and how little she thought of him back then, she’d have forgotten.

They were just a couple of stupid kids playing _dress-up_ …

Did she remember that?

She’d invited herself over, despite that he’d tried to dissuade her every step of the way to Hell Hall— ( _‘I’m not scared of your mom,’_ she’d insisted.) —and every step up the grand staircase to the second floor, across the landing, toward the door— ( _‘I’m not scared of a dumb closet, either.’_ ) —and over the threshold into the mouth of his personal hell, lined with iron teeth. ( _‘Huh. Pretty creepy, I guess.’_ )

Mal’s boldness had frightened and astounded him. She’d gone straight to inspecting his mother’s things, pulling down various pairs of heels and strutting around, doing her best “Cruella De Vil” impression. He’d laughed in spite of himself, and when Mal tossed him a pair to try… he did.

Carlos still remembered standing there in front of the mirror, staring at himself in a pair of his mother’s best heels, with one of her furs draped over his shoulders. He’d wrinkled his nose at the image, not liking how the look had emphasized his mother’s genetics; then, Mal had strut up behind him, poked her head over his shoulder, and given him a look. _‘You wear it better,’_ she’d said simply.

Taken aback, he’d shaken his head, stripping the fur off his shoulders and kicking the heels off. _‘I can’t wear this stuff,’_ he’d muttered as he started to put it back neatly, the way his mother liked it.

 _‘Why not?’_ Mal had asked him, dangling a pair of heels in his face.

He’d taken the heels from her with an eye-roll, placing them on the shelf. _‘I just can’t.’_

Mal had stared at him, then shrugged, looking suddenly bored. _‘Guess you’ll be short forever.’_

Carlos had been indignant at the thought. _‘Who says I’ll be short forever?!’_

 _‘Uh—everyone?’_ she’d offered, examining her nails.

_‘Well, what about you? You’re short, too!’_

_‘So what?’_ Mal had smirked. _‘I can wear heels.’_

 _‘But that’s just cheating,’_ he’d muttered.

_‘Yeah, okay, King Hairy…’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! And thank you a million times to the absolute angels who've been commenting on this fic. The passion for Marlos?? Amazing. Inspiring. Absolutely fantastic. I hope this chapter lived up to the hype for y'all. It was an absolute fucking pleasure to write, and I'm thrilled to finally be sharing it. Bless. <3


	4. Don't Believe in Fairytales, Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me kick this off with a quick apology for the very long wait _and_ the fact that there's been A Change Of Plans (in other words, you'll notice this fic has expanded from 4 chaps to 6 chaps). I had several personal emergencies come up after posting the last chap (yeah, thanks 2020) and I tried to write through the stress, but when I read through the original draft of this chapter (which was _very_ different from what you're about to read), it didn't exactly spark joy...?
> 
> Anyway, I took a step back, re-wrote my draft four times from different angles and, at last, settled on this fifth version that I'm finally proud to present. If you're wondering how this fic ended up sprouting two new chaps, you're about to find out. I'm having a lot of fun with this fic, so I decided to weave in a sub-plot that'll hopefully serve to deepen your appreciation of Marlos softness. ;)
> 
> One thing: I really enjoy experimenting with the structure of my work and what have you, so this chap (and the next) will basically make this fic a two-for-one deal. You'll see what I mean in a minute. In the next chap, I'll wrap up the sub-plot, and in Chapter 6 (the final chapter), we'll get back to the main plot. I hope you all are down for what I have planned! I'm really excited about it. <3
> 
> P.S. Shout out to @fuck-you-i-am-spiderman (Tumblr) for reading draft 3.5 and hyping me up with her lovely comments when my confidence was slipping a bit (too many rewrites will do that to you haha). I don't usually share my drafts, so that was a Moment. ;)
> 
>  **Chapter specific content-warnings (potential spoilers, albeit rather vague):** minor instances of swearing, references to child abuse (Carlos & Cruella), discussions and depictions of illness (nothing that would generally be considered "gross" though), one mention of hanging in a sarcastic sense (just a brief turn of phrase), and a minor blood mention.

Mal was quiet now, intensely focused—one hand lingering in Carlos’ curls, the other gripping at her paintbrush. She worked quick and slow in untraceable patterns. He could feel the ghost of her brush tip all across his back, feel it lingering like the memory of a wanted touch—a feeling that sank down _beneath_ the skin and stayed there, as much a part of him as vein and marrow—

Carlos breathed a sigh into the crook of his arm. _He was tired. So tired. Shouldn’t sleep, but he wanted to._

Problem was—or the danger of it... _something,_ like—if he let go _,_ he’d just… _shouldn’t,_ because— _what?_

His thoughts were a mess—all in pieces on the edge of dreams, impossible to puzzle through; still, as stubborn as he was, Carlos lay there with his eyes half-lidded, resistant to the siren call of sleep.

 _‘Take a nap,’_ Mal insisted, her voice echoing out of recent memory. _Had it always been an order, though?_

 _‘No,’_ he thought (except he didn’t just think it; the thought slipped out from his skull and into a mumble). He wasn’t sure if he’d been trying to answer her or talk to himself, but all the same…

Mal’s fingers twitched, then loosely curled, and she began to drag her nails up and down his scalp, passing gently over the scars his mother had left him. _He had bled for her affection._ This was different in every way. His mind buzzed with pleasure. _Still, the scars were there._ Still, he tried to forget them.

Think of anything else. _Think of anything else—not her touch, not her fingers, not the scars, not the scars—_

Carlos’ mind went suddenly quiet, all his thoughts subdued by a wordless song. Mal was humming, he realized. It was almost like a purr. He could feel it in his bones, like a warmth in his marrow. _The dragon song_ —something he’d first heard from her when he was feverish, on the edge of dreaming…

Had that been what woke him the first time, though, or did he hear it later? Had he even been asleep when he’d opened his eyes to see Mal’s silhouette at the window? She’d been standing there, still as a statue, her arms spread wide as unfurled wings, her fingers curled like claws around the curtains.

He had seen all that—seen her fingers trembling slightly—but he’d looked past it, a bit delirious, not fully in the present or the place he was— _had been in?_ (Time was dream-like then and now, the same.)

_It’d happened something like this, though—_

Carlos’ eyes went wide when he glimpsed the pale sun through the window, high above the barrier. “It’s broken,” he mumbled urgently, trying to sit up. “I broke it. I gotta clean—gotta… before she—”

“She’s not here,” said Mal, her tone brooking no argument. “She doesn’t even know where _here_ is.” Mal drew the curtains shut, then turned to look at Carlos. He was half-laid on the bed, propped up on his elbows, swaying like a pine tree in a windstorm as he blinked owlishly at her. “Lay down,” she instructed, but he only shook his head at her and kept on mumbling half-articulate nonsense.

(“—know, but _soon_ , and she’ll—”)

Mal sighed to herself as she crossed to the door, pausing at the threshold to call, “I’ll be right back.”

Carlos’ eyes hadn’t followed her, though, and he didn’t seem to be listening. _Little shit,_ she thought in some part of her mind that _wanted_ to believe he’d faked sick for attention. (Truth was, she knew better. Truth was, that’s what scared her.) But whatever. _He’ll be fine,_ she thought as she pushed the curtain aside and stepped out into the larger, brighter room beyond. _It’s just a bad cold or something…_

 _‘I don’t know,’_ Jay had muttered earlier that morning, arms crossed and brow knit with worry. _‘If it’s a cold, shouldn’t it be, like… gross? Coughing and sneezing and stuff? I mean… do we really know what we’re dealing with here?’_ His eyes had flicked pointedly to Evie as he’d asked, _‘Are we sure he’s not poisoned?’_

 _‘He’s not,’_ Evie had told him, placing a hand on his arm with a small, strained smile. _‘I’m sure.’_

Jay had held her gaze for a long moment, then finally nodded and looked back to Mal. _‘So… what, then?’_ he’d asked, pressing for her to instruct them, to do more than just stand there and feel it all.

Biting back a sigh, Mal had lifted her chin and said decisively, _‘He needs medicine. Whatever you can dig up—’_ She glanced at Evie, who nodded in response, then back to Jay. _‘—or steal, if you have to.’_ He started to nod, but Mal held her hand up to signal she wasn’t done. _‘Don’t do anything stupid, okay?’_

He’d nodded more stiffly, like he couldn’t quite promise; and not like that surprised her, but…

Mal frowned at a dirty fork that lay next to the bowl of half-melted ice she’d left out on the counter. She’d had to yank that damn fork out of Jay’s stupid thigh the _last_ time he’d come back from “not doing anything stupid.” She didn’t want to think what he’d do when the stakes were even higher.

Right now, all they had against Carlos’ fever was a rag and a bowl of ice water.

_It’d have to be enough._

Mal grabbed the rag and the bowl of water, then shuffled back toward the bedroom, feeling heavy with the weight of her unspoken worries. “Hey,” she started to say as she elbowed past the curtain. Her eyes snapped to Carlos—what she could see of him, anyway. “What the hell are you doing?”

Carlos didn’t jump or flinch or bother to answer her, so she stormed around to the other side of the bed to see for herself. “What the _hell?”_ she asked again, her tone decidedly more incredulous as she took in the sight of Carlos. He’d oozed halfway off the bed, one arm outstretched toward the floor, his fingers pinching and clawing at what, Mal could hardly tell. She squinted. “Are you…”

“Sweeping,” Carlos mumbled, struggling to lift his head. “S’dirty,” he added with a hint of disdain.

“You’re sweeping,” Mal deadpanned, “with your _fingers_ …” She set the bowl and rag down on the night table, next to a flickering candle. (Probably not her best idea to have left this idiot so close to an open flame, but then again, who knew the trouble he’d have managed _without_ a light source.)

Leaning down, she pressed the back of her palm to Carlos’ forehead, letting it rest there a moment before she pulled back, sighing heavily. _“_ If your brain cooks any longer, we can have it for lunch.”

“M’not hungry,” said Carlos, straining to reach a dust bunny beneath the night table as he held the rest of the dirt he’d gathered in one cupped hand. Mal made an exasperated noise as he began to slide off the bed, too dazed to react to the fact that his head was about to split open like a coconut.

Mal moved quickly and caught him by the shoulders, then started to push him back onto the bed.

“Not _done,”_ he complained, making a fist to try and capture all the dirt he’d managed to gather.

A fine cloud of dust slipped out and drifted lazily onto Mal’s boots, making her pause and glower at him. “Drop it,” she warned, but Carlos shook his head. “I said drop it.” He frowned a little—his best effort at intimidation under the circumstances. She clicked her tongue in annoyance, about to swat it out of his hand herself when an idea struck her. “I just washed the sheets. I don’t want them dirty.”

Carlos hesitated, and Mal quirked an eyebrow, waiting to see if he’d call her on her bullshit.

(She hadn’t done the laundry in _weeks_ , after all _._ )

“Okay,” he mumbled, at last, holding the dirt out to her with an expectant look. “Can you throw it?”

“Uh… sure.” Mal released one of his shoulders and cupped her hand beneath his to accept the dirt, then gave him a little shove as she added, “Lay down.” He nodded tiredly, about to comply when he suddenly froze, eyes narrowing with suspicion. _Damn it,_ she thought, trying to keep her face neutral.

“You _threw_ it,” he accused, and hell, he looked so fucking petulant…

Mal’s mask began to crack.

“You asked me to throw it,” she pointed out. _Hang me. I’m fae,_ she added silently, nearly smirking. Not her fault if she had an ear for loopholes. (She’d tossed the palmful of dirt behind her back when she thought Carlos wasn’t looking, because _seriously... who cares? It’s just a fucking floor,_ she thought.)

Carlos gave a raspy growl. “Swept,” he muttered, seemingly more to himself than Mal, who rolled her eyes at him.

“Yeah, great job,” she replied, stepping forward to jab a finger into his chest, toppling him onto his back. He grunted in annoyance, struggling to sit up with the last vestiges of his strength. Mal had only to put a hand on his chest and apply a gentle pressure to keep him down. He looked tired from resisting, staring up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. Still, she could see the spark of a glare in him—

That was good, she figured. He wasn’t… _you know_ —like, he wasn’t dying, obviously. _Obviously._

(Her throat tightened at the thought, which seemed a stupid, pointless reaction to nothing.)

“Here,” she said, grabbing the rag and dunking it into the bowl of water. She swirled it around, wrung it out in a fist, then turned to offer it to Carlos, expecting him to take it. _“Here,”_ she said again, frowning a little when he just lay there, blinking tiredly at her before closing his eyes again. ‘ _I’m not your good-forsaken nurse,’_ she wanted to say (but didn’t). _‘Ugh, come on, your arms still work.’_

Carlos still didn’t move, and for a second, neither did Mal. She stood there staring at him, listening to his soft, wheezing breaths in the relative silence. Her eyes trailed down to where the rag was dripping onto the sheets, and she moved her hand back to let it drip on the floor instead.

Finally, with an awkward shuffle, she moved closer to the bed, to where her knees hit against the mattress, and she bent forward to lay the rag over Carlos’ forehead herself. It felt _weird,_ like… like maybe Jay was going to manifest out of thin air any moment and accuse her of blushing. She _wasn’t,_ of course. That was stupid. Mal, daughter of Maleficent, the MISTRESS of Evil, did not _blush_ —ever.

But _especially_ not over dumb shit like being alone and so close, she could almost think to—

Carlos eyes fluttered open when a drop splashed down onto his cheek. “Mm…?”

Mal let the rag drop without word or ceremony. She drew back as the shock of cold hit Carlos, and a gasping whine tore from his throat. He reached to claw the rag off, but she was quicker. She grabbed his wrist tight, making him flinch. Their eyes locked and Mal tensed, half-expecting that he’d see his mother’s face instead of hers, slip back into a fever dream on the borderland of nightmares and—

“C-c- _cold,”_ Carlos stuttered out, starting to shiver.

Mal couldn’t help but frown, given the heat of his skin against her palm. She breathed out a sigh as she loosened her grip, about to say _sorry_ when she noticed the movement. He’d slid his free hand out to fist at the sheets, trying to tug the edges out from where Mal and Evie had carefully tucked them beneath the mattress while Jay had, earlier, wrestled off the thicker blankets to hide away.

“Stop it,” Mal warned, clambering onto the bed to grab at both his wrists. He evaded her just long enough to rip the cloth off his forehead and toss it aside. She pinned his arms above his head, then swung a leg across his hips, leaning down to where they were nose to nose. “Keep fighting me, see what happens,” she snarled, eyes flashing green. “I’ll stuff your ass in the _fridge,_ De Vil. Got it?!”

“Nah,” he muttered vaguely, causing Mal to raise an eyebrow.

 _“Nah?”_ she echoed, incredulous.

Carlos gave a subtle nod before his head lolled to the side, and he huffed out softly, “E said no…”

Mal gaped at him for a moment, then said hurriedly, _nearly_ stuttering, “Well, too bad! E’s not here.”

“Oh,” said Carlos, voice thick with fatigue. “Where’s she?”

Mal hesitated to answer, not wanting to tell him the truth, if he really didn’t know. “She’s…” _In the woods._ “…with Jay.” _Maybe._ “They’re just getting some stuff we need.” _For you, for your fever._ “Should be back soon.” _Probably_ —or yeah, okay, probably _not,_ but Mal didn’t exactly like to dwell on _waiting._

She released her hold on Carlos, then reached for the rag he’d tossed to the other side of the bed. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of it, but didn’t try to stop her from laying it back across his forehead.

Content with that, Mal rolled off of him and onto her side, coming to rest with her right arm curled up, fist propped against the side of her head. She studied Carlos, who glanced at her, in turn. “You should take a nap,” she told him, raising an eyebrow to imply that it wasn’t so much a _suggestion._

“Not tired,” he replied, a little too quickly—like it was just his nature to deny anything she asked.

 _Had he always been like that?_ She didn’t think so.

 _Fucker,_ she thought with a smirk, reaching with her free hand to pull the rag down over his eyes.

“Can’t see,” he mumbled, blinking beneath the raggedy white cotton.

Mal shushed him and he fell into silence, laying very still for almost a minute, until—

“M’so _hot,”_ he complained, though he was plainly shivering. He rolled onto his side, letting the wet rag fall and pool onto his pillow. Mal was just about to reach for it when he flopped onto his belly, buried his face in the pillow, made a frustrated noise, and then rolled onto his back again.

“Thought you were cold,” said Mal, a bit surprised to see Carlos pulling his shirt up, unprompted.

Carlos paused with his hand just above his navel, showing a bit of scarred and freckled flesh by the candle’s glow. He started to shake his head, then nodded, all the while managing to look confused.

“Okay,” Mal said slowly, probably twice as confused. “I have no idea what that means, ‘Los.”

 _“M’hot,”_ he repeated, even as he rolled onto his side and tried to cuddle against her.

Mal rolled her eyes and gently pushed him away. “Just take your shirt off,” she told him, making a face as she added, “You’re all sweaty, anyway.” (Kinda stunk, if she were honest. But she spared him the barb.) They had all tried to talk him into changing earlier—at least putting on one of Jay’s tanks or something. She’d sorta given up when Jay had left the bedroom with a very _human_ bite mark.

 _‘That needs stitches,’_ Evie had told him at a glance, already marching off to retrieve her sewing kit.

“S’fine,” Carlos murmured, drawing Mal’s attention back. He’d gone quiet for a moment, but now he was clutching tight at the hem of his shirt, pulling it as far past his navel as it’d go. He glanced at her for a split-second before he rolled away and tucked his knees up, never uttering another word.

Mal bit back a sigh as she reached for the rag that’d left a wet spot on his pillow. She dangled it in front of his eyes for a moment before draping it back across his forehead. He didn’t flinch or try to grab at it, so she pulled back a second later, dropping her head onto the pillow, watching his back.

He’d been aware of her eyes on him, but less and less so as the exhaustion had crept into his bones. The world turned black, then dream-like, then something in-between, and in that in-between, he’d heard it—felt the sound all through his bones, felt a warmth that stopped him shivering and seemed even to dry the sheen of sweat on his skin. Not literally, of course, but… it was a _feeling_ like magic.

Something stranger than fiction.


	5. Don't Believe in Fairytales, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! I'm so excited to finally be able to share this chapter! It took forever to get right, but I'm finally feeling good about it haha. Anyway, quick recap: with this chap, we'll be continuing the dream/memory sequence that began in the previous chapter right on through to the end, so you _might_ want to skim through the last chap to refresh your memory before you start. Happy reading! <3
> 
>  **Chapter specific content-warnings (potential spoilers, albeit rather vague):** swearing, light (non-graphic) descriptions of injuries and first aid, references to child abuse (Carlos & Cruella), implied mental health issues (anxiety, depression, PTSD, etc), and possible triggers for derealization/disassociation.

Mal hadn’t been there when his fever broke, but Carlos held to the memory of that strange dream of her beside him, eyes burning in the dark, voice threading under skin— _so-close-but-not-quite-magic_ —

It was several weeks later, when the details of that memory were fading like an ancient ghost and he’d just begun to doubt it was a dream he’d had at all—he heard it again, wide awake and staring right at Mal as he stood there, frozen. She was crouched over Jay, who was laid out on the couch, unconscious and bleeding from a street fight. She’d give him hell for it later, Carlos knew, but for those moments he stood watching, listening—those moments before she realized his presence—

Mal’s hands were in Jay’s hair and she was singing softly, that wordless tune, _so-close-but-not-quite—_

She stopped abruptly when the old wood creaked under Carlos' feet.

“Did you get the stuff?” she asked, her shoulders stiff as she straightened up, her back still to Carlos.

“Yeah,” was all he said as he started forward, hands digging into his pockets. He produced a corked vial of vodka, having skimmed what little he could off his mother’s bottle, plus a roll of gauze he’d made himself from old shirts. He usually kept a few strips hidden beneath his mattress—plus a pile more up in the treehouse.

That’s where he’d gone for these supplies, since his mother was at home and he couldn’t risk her catching sight of him. He’d done his chores that morning, but she’d make up new ones on a whim.

(Like _hell_ he’d be made to “comb out” her carpets. Not when Jay’s wounds were starting to fester.)

Carlos knelt beside the couch with the vial in hand, his thumb poised to uncork it. He bit his lip as he reached for the hem of Jay’s shirt, only to withdraw his hand and glance uncertainly up at Mal, who raised an eyebrow, as if to ask him, _‘What, you think he’ll care? This is Jay we’re talking about...’_

“Hurry up,” she snapped, since her look hadn’t budged him. “There’s nothing deep, but it’s dirty.”

_And that was worse, half the time—if he got an infection—_

Carlos yanked Jay’s shirt up, uncorked the vial, and poured out the vodka, drenching his torso. He tried to catch the run-off with a gentle sweep of his hand, spreading it back over battered flesh. He hissed in sympathy when the wounds reacted, making Jay’s face contort and his muscles clench—

“Get a cloth and some water,” Mal instructed, her eyes fixed on Jay as she waved Carlos off.

Pocketing the vial, Carlos straightened up and headed for the kitchen, his skull abuzz with worry. He hadn’t even realized how far his mind had wandered from earlier—how he’d all but forgotten what he’d heard, what he’d _felt_ —(the way Mal had been humming)—

That is, until he turned back with the cloth and a mug of water in hand.

He turned to see Mal hovering like a nervous bird, her hands combing through Jay’s sweat-soaked hair with an almost-tenderness— _almost_ because, beneath her breath, he could hear her muttering, “You’re such a fucking idiot…”

Carlos felt the tug of a smile at the cadence of her voice. He’d never heard it before like he did right then. It was a strange thing, like hearing your own accent. It happened once and quickly, and as soon as he realized—he couldn’t anymore forget it than he could force himself to hear it. _There and gone—_

It seemed ridiculous.

More and more so in the days that followed, when Jay was sitting up, acting more himself, and Mal was knife-sharp on the streets again. Carlos tried to forget it all, tried to reason with his feeling-core—tried and tried until it maddened him, left him sleepless and muttering: _“Shut up, shut up, shut up.”_

The next month, though, he’d been rooting through a trash can when something caught his eye—

Among the junk and chicken bones and things he didn’t want to identify, there was a book. He took it quickly, as if anyone would care or think it precious. Most people wouldn’t, especially not in this unsaleable condition. He could barely make out the title, with how stained the cover was, but… it _seemed_ to be a book of fairytales—something Evie would love to have as hers in better condition.

Humming to himself, Carlos examined the book more carefully. The cover was a loss, better left to the trash—it was stained and moulding, slewing off the spine with mere strings of glue still attached.

He snapped the glue with his fingers and let the cover fall away, then tucked the pages into his coat.

“Whatcha reading, nerd?” Mal had asked him that evening as she stepped up behind him, peeking over his shoulder at the mess of a project he’d laid out in front of him. He’d only meant to rebind the old book as a gift for Evie. He hadn’t meant to read it, hadn’t meant to get invested like a _child—_

“Uh, just—it’s—” He tried to think what to say, tried to move his hand discreetly to obscure the title.

Too late, because Mal had already seen it. “The Dragon Song?” she asked, her tone incredulous. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her nail tips gently digging in. “Don’t tell me you actually _believe—”_

“I don’t,” he retorted, brushing her hand off with a frown. “I’m not some stupid kid, Mal.”

“Right,” she said, something odd about her tone that made him turn to look up at her. She was quick to meet his stare, matching his frown in that very instant. “Just making sure.” He narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, she’d cuffed him on the back of his head and turned to leave.

Huffing, he grabbed the first thing he could spare off the desk and chucked it at her back.

She dodged it easily with a step to the side, then flipped him off over her shoulder.

Turning back to his project, Carlos found himself not wanting to continue. He was annoyed with it suddenly, or maybe just with Mal—or, hell, maybe it was himself? He didn’t know what it was, but it made him tired. “Stupid,” he muttered, folding his arms atop the book and dropping his head down.

He’d fallen asleep there, hunched over on the desk, unaware of Mal a little ways behind him on the couch, stealing glances to fill her sketchbook. (She’d never shown those pages to anyone, even now.)

Carlos finished his work a few nights later, wrapped the book up in white cloth, and stashed it in his treehouse. He waited until his mother was asleep and the lights were dim at the Castle-Across-The-Way before he snuck out to meet Evie. She didn’t know he was coming, but her shutters were open and a candle burning on her window sill; that had long been her sign to him that she was alone in her room and he could come over, if he wanted to—

(Mostly, that was her way of letting him know he had a place to escape to.)

He crept out from the shadow of the manor, slunk across the road, and hopped the stone wall into Grimhilde’s rotting garden. He waited there a moment to be certain of the quiet, then continued on his way. His satchel hung heavily off his shoulder as he arrived at the base of the castle wall, three stories high with still higher towers.

 _This_ was the only thing he dreaded more than Evie’s mother waking to find him in her daughter’s bedroom at this hour.

No way around it, though.

Carlos reached up into the ivy, testing his grip before getting a foot up. He tried not to think (or look down) as he scaled the wall, just like a thousand times before. _It was never getting easier, was it…?_

He grimaced when his foot slipped off a mossy stone.

_Deep breaths._

Finally, he was high enough to swing his leg up over the railing and collapse onto the balcony in a breathless heap. Evie, who had been at her mirror, brushing her hair, caught a glimpse of him in the glass through her windowed doors. She dropped her brush and flew outside, about to demand he tell her what happened when he just gave her a small smile and produced the book instead—

“For me?” she asked, returning the smile as she peeled back the cloth around it to reveal the title. He’d written it himself—burnt it into the plywood he’d cut and fashioned into a cover of sorts. It wasn’t beautiful, like Evie deserved, but at least he could say it was better than what it was before.

Evie’s smile was radiant as she dropped right down onto the balcony floor, not even caring about the dust that would dirty her night gown. She arranged herself beside him, set the book on her knee and began to pore through the pages. He watched her sedately, content in the quiet—

There weren’t many houses this side of the Isle, and not much life besides the villains themselves, so the night’s best music was the rustling of pages, the sound of Evie’s breathing, the echo of her heart.

Carlos let his head drop onto her shoulder. He blinked heavily, wanting more and more to close his eyes and give into the peace he felt. It was such a rare thing on the Isle, it shouldn’t be wasted—

Another turn of the page revealed the blue ribbon bookmark he’d glued into the binding.

He hadn’t realized where he’d placed it when he shut the book for the last time, but _there it was_ —

“The Dragon Song,” Evie murmured, reading the title as she traced it with her finger. “I’ve heard this one before…” She paused, dragging her finger down the page with a secret smile. “Have you?”

Carlos replied without thinking, stifling a yawn: “Mal says it’s not a thing.”

“That’s Mal,” said Evie, huffing a soft laugh and ribbing him gently. “What about you?”

“Me?” he echoed.

“Mm’hmm. What do _you_ think?”

Carlos was quiet, unsure what to say. He stared at her hand, now flat against the page, obscuring all but the opening lines beneath the title: _’This is the word of a Knight to his Queen: that what he’s heard can be told, but never sung by any bard; that what he’s felt is a warmth no fire will e’er provide him; that the dr—’_

“I don’t know,” he said at last, tearing his eyes from the book at the same time he lifted his head off Evie’s shoulder. “I mean, it’s just—” He glanced at her sidelong. “It’s a fairytale, E, it’s not like it’s…”

 _Real_.

The word hung heavy between them.

Evie twisted to look at him with a strange, slow smile—one that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s history,” she corrected, softly shutting the book and setting it between them. “It’s as real as any story can be.”

Carlos breathed a sigh and tipped his head back, looking up to the stars. “I guess,” he mumbled, not exactly agreeing. He’d never found the fae… _reliable_ in telling history; Mal, herself, would agree—her people’s stories were bullshit. _‘They’re kinda funny though,’_ she’d muse. _‘Jay used to think I couldn’t lie.’_

 _‘Dude, we were four,’ _Jay’s voice bubbled up from the depths of memory, _‘and for your information—’_

“I think Mal’s… scared what it means,” Evie said in a low voice, her dark eyes intense on Carlos, “if it’s true…” She paused. “It’d change things, wouldn’t it?” She glanced down, toying with her hem.

Carlos huffed, closing his eyes. “She’s not scared of anything,” he retorted, feeling oddly defensive.

Evie was quiet for a moment, and then said simply, with a dull edge, “You’re smarter than that, Cee.”

“So are you,” he said coldly, regretting it immediately.

When he looked at Evie, her hand lay limp at the edge of her gown. She was staring at the hemline, expression blank from what he could tell of it. He read anger there, because it had to be—and that made him restless at the same time it froze him. _Should he say something? Try to change the subject?_

An awkward silence stretched between them as Carlos searched the floor with unfocused eyes.

“Carlos?” Evie’s hand was on his knee, applying gentle pressure. “It’s getting late,” she said, once he’d looked at her. “You should probably…” She trailed off, seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes—

_She never asked him to leave. It never ended like this._

_Too late to rewrite the scene, though._

He was on his feet the next second, offering her a hand, which she took—but quietly; not with her usual flair of playfulness—no curtsy, no thank you, no “gentleman” or “kind sir.” She just stared at him for a moment, touched her fingers lightly to his freckled cheek, then turned to her bedroom—

“Princess,” he said softly, causing her to pause and look back at him. “You forgot this…”

Evie reached for the book, lips parted to form an unspoken, _‘Oh.’_

She clutched it guiltily to her chest, her gaze lingering on him as he turned to leave.

“Be careful,” he thought he’d heard her whispering, but by then, she had slipped from his sight and he was grasping at fistfuls of ivy—too hurried to watch his step now, too much static in his mind—

Several feet above the ground, the stone he’d stepped on gave a sharp crack.

He’d landed in a thorn bush, all too grateful for the darkness.

“You get jumped by a cat?” Jay had asked him with a grin the next day, having found him in the hall between classes. He poked at one of the many bandages on Carlos’ cheeks, unfazed by the grumpy swat it earned him. “You look like shit.” (Jay said it pleasantly, leaning back against the lockers.)

“Didn’t realize,” Carlos grumbled, snatching his gym shirt before slamming his locker. He stuffed the shirt up under his armpit, full of menace for whatever _bloodsport_ the day held. He’d go change in the bathroom before the bell rang—if it even rang, since that was hardly a given here, but either way—

“I’ve got gym,” he muttered, brushing past Jay, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Uh, yeah? Me too, genius,” Jay scoffed at him, matching Carlos’ stride with half the effort. “So…” Jay slipped into a lazy smirk, letting one hand swing and bump Carlos’ hip. “Rough night, huh?”

(Carlos didn’t respond.)

“No broken bones, so couldn’t have been that bad.” Jay sidled closer with a widening smirk. “Not like she pushed you off the balcony, right?” He playfully shoved at Carlos’ shoulder, causing him to stumble and drop his gym shirt; when he’d grabbed it back up, he whirled to face Jay with a glare.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled, stepping up into Jay’s space.

The light in Jay’s eyes flickered and his smirk began to falter; then, quick recovering, he was himself again—too loud, too bright, too confident. He laughed and reached out, ruffling Carlos’ hair, but—

(Carlos’ memory of what happened next was like a broken mirror, cracked but holding together.)

 _I’m dreaming,_ he thought idly, though it gave him no control.

He felt it happening as if in the present, only time was more condensed.

He felt Jay’s hangnail catch, felt him tug at his roots, and—fuck, he hadn’t meant to _feel so much,_ or to grab Jay’s hand, but— _he did._ He grabbed Jay’s hand and dug his nails sharp into his heart line—hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough Jay should have pushed away, hurt him back, but— _He didn’t._

 _I’m dreaming,_ Carlos thought again, hating to stand here in this hall of mirrors.

He didn’t want to see Jay’s eyes so wide and dark and full of strange emotions. He didn’t want to see _himself_ there, looking just like his mother—teeth flashing out from behind the angry shape of his lips, carving words too sharp to hold onto. _Just like her, just like her, just like her—_ or even worse, since—

He’d run from the scene, dropping Jay’s hand like it’d burned him.

Mal had shown up in the boy’s bathroom some fifteen minutes later, right as Carlos was coming down from his anger, slipping more into panic. He’d flinched when a wet ball of paper towels had struck him on the head, not surprised when Mal’s head appeared above the top of the neighbouring stall—

(She had to be teetering on the water tank. No way she’d reached the top another way.)

“Hey, Cee,” she greeted, sounding almost bored. “You wanna tell me what the hell I missed?”

He shook his head, but she was already climbing—one leg swung up over the stall panel, head down to avoid the ceiling. “Yeah? Too bad,” she informed him through gritted teeth, straining to speak in her awkward position, “because—” She landed with a grunt on the edges of the toilet seat, careful not to let her boots slip into the copper-tinted water. “Jay’s being a sulk,” she declared, crossing her arms as she stood there like the king of shit, “and you’re easier to beat into submission, so…”

Mal was smirking when Carlos looked up at her, dark eyes narrowed and burning with defiance.

“Kidding,” she assured him as she leapt onto the tiles, dropping down into a squat with her elbows resting on her knees. She smirked and tilted her head, studying him like something interesting—

“Come on,” she laughed, rare and genuine—the sound of it almost softening him, “you really think I couldn’t make Jay talk if I wanted to?” (She flashed him a grin, all sharp and pointed.) “Doesn’t take much, y’know—just gotta grab him where it hurts and…” She made a fist and a twisting motion.

Carlos wrinkled his nose and drew his knees in tighter, arms encircling.

“Relax, dude.” Mal’s voice was strained by laughter. “I’m not here to bust your balls.”

“Yeah, why _are_ you here, then?” he muttered, the words tapering off into a heavy sigh.

“Just wanna talk.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “About what?

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Whatever you want, I guess,” she offered, falling back onto her butt. She made herself comfortable, legs crossed and hands on her thighs. The pose was casual enough, but her stare was piercing—green eyes on Carlos with a tigress’ intensity—

He heaved a sigh and glanced away from her. “Don’t wanna talk, so… guess we’re sitting here.”

Snorting, Mal uncurled one of her legs, lifting it slowly. He caught the movement in his peripheral vision, but too late to stop her from striking; quick as a viper, her boot was pressed to his shoulder, forcing his back flush with the cold concrete wall. His hands flew up to grapple clumsily with her ankle, fingers tugging and pulling claw-like at her laces. She only smirked as she held him pinned there, content to watch him like a moth in a display case—only worse because _he_ was alive still.

“You wanna try me again?” she asked lightly, seeing the sweat that’d appeared on his brow.

“You wanna do my fucking laundry?” he snapped back, making her laugh enough, she weakened. He wasted no time in shoving her foot off, muttering about stains as he picked at a mud clump.

Back then, Mal hadn’t known how serious it was. She hadn’t known what Cruella would do over a spot like that—maybe _especially_ over a spot like that. _She hadn’t known how Carlos’ guts were twisting…_

She’d sat there laughing, free as Carlos could only envy—

“You’re such a priss,” she teased, watching him spit and rub at the spot, brows knit in concentration.

“Sorry your boot prints aren’t in fashion,” Carlos grumbled in answer, drawing a snort from Mal, who promised they would be soon, what with “all the ass she had lined up to kick” or whatever.

They’d gone back and forth like that for a while, until someone desperate enough had picked the bathroom lock, banged the door wide open, and hurled themselves into the neighbouring stall—

“Oh, fuck you, man!” Mal exclaimed a second later, when the symphony began. She leapt to her feet and started pounding her fist on the panel, loudly berating whoever sat speechless on the other side.

Carlos, for all he tried to, suddenly found he couldn’t keep himself from laughing.

He doubled over in hysterics, tears streaming from his eyes—so enraptured by his amusement, he didn’t notice when Mal went quiet, staring down at him with a rare open fondness—

(It’d have stopped him laughing if he’d noticed.)

Mal, at last, just rolled her eyes and bent to seize him by the arm as he continued to laugh.

She dragged him up onto his feet with one hand, using the other to plug her nose. They exited the stall (and the bathroom) in a hurry, though not without Mal promptly doubling back to yell across the threshold, “You’re shitting your last, you hear me?! I’m out here waiting for you! You’re DONE.”

Slamming the door, Mal turned to see Carlos, red-faced and shaking with silent laughter. He slowly sunk down against the lockers, arms clutched tight around his middle. Conveniently, it looked a lot like Mal had punched him in the stomach, so she made sure to play her part up—

 _‘You’re next,’_ she mouthed to a passing first-year, who quickly doubled their pace down the hallway.

Some minutes later, when Carlos was more composed, he raised his head to see Mal with her hands on her hips. She looked bored—but intentionally so. “You’re so weird, De Vil,” she sighed out, and with that, she turned to leave, just assuming he would follow. “Come on, I’m fucking starving…”

Carlos jumped up, stepping after her, only to glance back in the other direction—

He’d caught a flash of something brightly hued, like a fish beneath the water.

“M—” he started to say, but she was already gone.

He was alone in the hallway, and it was suddenly quiet—colder, too, as he stood there, staring.

 _I’m dreaming,_ he thought—or more like he remembered. “I’m dreaming,” he murmured, breaking further from the memory, even as the hall stretched on and on ahead of him. He could see someone there at the very end of it, face framed beneath a flickering light, hair like ocean spilled on canvas—

 _But—_ He stopped.

_That was Hades’ portrait. Obviously._

_It’d always been there, he shouldn’t have hoped it was—_

“Eves, can you toss me that pillow? He’s kinda crushing my dick.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! I'd love to hear your thoughts, but no pressure. <3
> 
> P.S. Feel free to drop in and say hello if you're on Tumblr: @hersilentlanguage :)


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